The morning sunlight spilled softly into Classroom 2-B, filtering through the tall windows and illuminating the orderly rows of desks. Students shuffled about, chatting quietly, some still rubbing sleep from their eyes, others busily preparing notebooks and stationery for the day ahead. Cliff sat lazily at his usual spot near the window, his chin propped on one hand, half-listening to the muffled bustle around him while his gaze drifted over the classroom. His dark hair fell slightly into his eyes, and he blinked slowly, almost absentmindedly tracing the edge of his notebook with a finger. Today seemed like any other day—but fate had already begun whispering its first words.
A soft murmur rose from the front of the class as the door opened, and a new student was ushered in. The teacher adjusted her glasses, smiling nervously at the young girl. "Everyone, please welcome our new transfer student. Valvet Neri, please take a seat."
The girl stepped in with a quiet grace, her long chestnut hair catching the light as she moved. Cliff's breath hitched slightly. It was love at first sight—or at least something so close that it left his mind momentarily blank. He forced himself to look away, pretending to busy himself with his notebook, but luck—or misfortune—had its own plans. Valvet's seat, by sheer coincidence, was directly behind him. Every movement she made, every slight adjustment of her hair, every careful placement of her notebook, tugged at some unnameable part of him. Cliff's heart raced, and yet he kept his eyes on his own desk, not daring to draw attention.
Halfway through the first period, as Cliff struggled to muster a way to speak to her without tripping over his own tongue, a sudden flash of light erupted at the classroom door. A blinding, intense brilliance filled the room, searing his vision for a few precious seconds. The world erupted into chaos as screams echoed off the walls. The next instant, deafening explosions tore through the building, shattering glass, scattering papers, and throwing bodies in every direction. Smoke and debris filled the air. Cliff's ears rang violently; his lungs burned with the acrid taste of smoke and dust. Through the chaos, he could barely see Valvet. But she was there, a silhouette amidst the carnage.
When the ringing in his ears finally dulled, he saw the aftermath. The classroom was a ruin, splintered desks and shattered windows everywhere. Screams and cries echoed down the hallway. Out of forty students, only seven remained conscious, coughing, bleeding, and trembling in shock. Cliff's heart pounded as he staggered to his feet, half-disoriented, and searched for Valvet. She was alive, though shaken, a thin streak of blood on her forehead. Relief and fear collided in his chest. This—this was no accident. Something about the precision, the timing, the utter destruction, felt deliberate.
Through the haze of smoke, the sound of distant sirens grew. Police and emergency vehicles approached, their wailing a grim counterpoint to the chaos. The surviving students clutched at each other, eyes wide, the reality of the attack slowly settling in. Cliff caught Valvet's hand in his, anchoring them to some fragile thread of normalcy.
Then, for a fleeting moment, the scene shifted. Far from the chaos, atop a distant rooftop, a figure stood motionless, hidden behind the silhouette of a tree. A sniper rifle rested lightly on their shoulder. With surgical precision, a shot was fired. A tiny projectile streaked through the air, invisible to those in the classroom, yet it found its mark. A voice crackled in the sniper's earpiece: "Target hit. Confirmed." A faint, unreadable smile brushed the shooter's lips before they vanished into the shadows, leaving only the echo of intent behind.
Back in the classroom, the final blast detonated. Cliff's vision blurred, the world twisting around him. Pain and heat merged into a numbing haze. Somehow, he survived. Somehow, Valvet did too, along with five others. The rest were gone. Transferred, stabilized, patched together, but scarred—physically and mentally. They were all taken to the same hospital, a place that would serve as the first ground of their new reality.
In those sterile halls, bandages and IV lines forming a web around them, friendships began to take root. Shared trauma became a bond, silent glances turned into understanding, and laughter, tentative at first, began to surface amidst the sterile hum of fluorescent lights. Cliff found himself noticing subtle changes within himself: his reflexes were sharper, his mind raced faster than before, and his body seemed to respond with a strength and agility that felt almost unnatural. He kept these sensations to himself, hiding the unease and wonder from everyone, including Valvet.
Days passed. Simple walks through the hospital corridor, shared meals, small jokes and teasing remarks—it all became a quiet sanctuary amid the aftermath. The hospital became a crucible, forming a tight-knit circle among the seven survivors. Valvet, always serene and thoughtful, drew him in with her quiet determination and gentle humor. Cliff, despite himself, began to cherish each moment: the way she tilted her head when concentrating, the small laugh she let slip when a joke landed right, the way she brushed her hair behind her ear absentmindedly.
Time skipped forward. School was rebuilt, but the echoes of that fateful day lingered in every hallway, every classroom. Cliff, Valvet, and the others returned, blending the mundane routines of school life with the undercurrent of unspoken trauma. The group became inseparable, their shared experiences forming a shield of camaraderie against the world. During exams, they devised subtle tricks to support each other, their laughter and whispered jokes adding light to the darkened memories that still clung to them.
One afternoon, as the group walked toward Cliff's house for a sleepover, the air vibrated with normalcy. They joked, shoved each other playfully, and argued over trivial things like which game to play first. Cliff's heart thumped incessantly whenever Valvet was near. Then, as the group rounded a corner, a figure emerged—a robber, brandishing a gun with a casual arrogance, assuming he was dealing with ordinary teenagers.
Instinctively, Cliff stepped forward, feeling his body move with a precision and strength that startled him. His hands found the robber's weapon, twisting and disarming him before the man could react. Cliff had no idea how he knew the technique; it simply flowed from him, instinctive and unnatural. The robber fled, cursing and panicked, as the group stared at Cliff, wide-eyed. From a nearby tree, an observer murmured into an earpiece: "First modification adaptation successful." The subtle nod of satisfaction went unnoticed, a ghost of a plan unfolding silently.
The rest of the night passed with laughter and minor chaos. Video games, late-night snacks, and whispered conversations under dimmed lights. Cliff felt the warmth of friendship and the pull of his heart, yet a nagging unease remained beneath the surface.
Morning arrived with gentle sunlight spilling through his window. The group separated to their homes briefly, reconvening at noon for a casual shopping trip. Cliff's nerves were taut, each step heavier than it should have been, as Valvet walked beside him. Laughter and conversation filled the streets, yet an invisible weight pressed against his chest. Then, without warning, his vision blurred. Dizziness and nausea overtook him. His legs buckled, and darkness claimed him.
When he awoke, it was in a hospital bed once more, monitors beeping erratically. Blood pressure spiking dangerously, Cliff realized the consequences of whatever had been secretly altered within him. The staff moved swiftly, panic evident in their measured movements. His friends were at his side, voices trembling but supportive, wishing him recovery with gentle words that could not penetrate the deep unease coiling within him.
An hour passed, then two. Cliff's body convulsed violently, pain wracking him beyond comprehension. Screams tore from his throat, raw and primal, as a figure entered the room. Doctors tried to intervene, but the man moved with authority and precision, injecting a serum that immediately stabilized Cliff's condition. The figure left as silently as he had arrived, leaving only questions and unease behind.
Night fell. The hospital corridors were silent save for the distant hum of machinery. Cliff lay in his bed, the weight of the day pressing down on him. Outside, unseen hands moved through shadows. Whispers of intentions and plans danced beyond his perception. The final scene of the chapter closed on the ominous note of Cliff being abducted by unknown assailants, leaving the air thick with mystery and dread, as questions about the sniper, the DNA modifications, and the true forces at play remained unanswered.